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23 March 2005

Thirteen

Eighth Grade

Danni and I went to different schools once her parents moved out of the neighborhood. We still saw each other on the weekends, at the mall, but less and less frequently. At my junior high I was friends with the freaks and the geeks and everyone in between. At the time I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere; now I realize that I actually belonged everywhere. I was smart, pretty, athletic, played the violin and cello, did theatre, and oh, yeah- I had been arrested for trespassing at “Amityville” last summer. That did a lot for my acceptance with the freaks.

When I hung with the freaks, it was either across the street from school, where we’d sit on the corner and smoke cigarettes (I pretended), or at Aaron’s house. Aaron was in ninth grade and had a blond Mohawk which he froze into spikes with toothpaste. No shit. Once I licked my finger, touched it to his 'hawk and tasted it. Crest. His older brother had built a halfpipe in his backyard and all the skaters used it. We hung out at his parentless house in the afternoons listening to Black Flag, Suicidal Tendencies and Dead Kennedys.

In January of 1986, Aaron had a party at his house. Actually, I think it was his brother’s party, but Aaron’s friends got invited anyway. Their mom bought alcohol, and went on at least one beer run during the evening. The party was in their basement. Drunk and stoned junior high school boys eventually passed out on the couches. The high school guys faired better. Tommy Martinez was there.

I’d had a crush on him ever since he started dating Ana Leitz, my ex-boyfriend’s older sister. They were broken up now, and he was sixteen. I thought he was beautiful. he was slight, and had a sinewy build with the sexiest lips ever. Think Prince, without the facial hair. I had been flirting with him for the last six months.

It’s funny, but I don’t remember other girls being at the party. I was used to being the only girl in a group of guys, so it didn’t feel unusual to me. I laughed as one poor guy got his eyebrow shaved while he slept on the couch.

It got later, and eventually Aaron, Tommy and I were in Aaron’s room listening to music. Aaron left for some reason, and it was just Tommy and me. He kissed me. We’d kissed before, but not like that. I was shaking.

He turned off the light. My heart started to beat faster. But we were just kissing; just making out. He pressed against me and I felt his erection. I was at once sick and excited. I did not want to see or feel that penis.

But this is Tommy, I thought. He did this with Ana.

We were lying on Aaron’s bed, facing each other. He was kissing and rubbing against me. I was enjoying the kissing part, but I really wanted the lower half of his body to disappear.

His pants were off now, and I was trying to sit up. I couldn’t see anything but the outline of the window near the ceiling, where the heavy curtain didn’t cover the edges. The moon was bright outside. I wanted it inside with me. To wash over my body and take me away.

I scooted to the end of the bed and he caught my shoulders. Pushed me back and pulled my knees up towards him. My skirt was bunched up around my waist.

I felt him hard against my thigh, then on the outside of my underpants.

I wanted to call out, but who would hear me? Nobody who could get there fast enough to stop him from tearing my underwear on one side and pulling it down one leg.

He pushed into me; this hard, smooth, hot dick that I didn’t want. I could barely get the words out; I was whimpering, whispering:

I am always amazed that things like this happen. It infuriates me. Your thought process where you could have screamed but you didn't because there would have been no point. Is that complete helplessness...fear...or do you get to a point where you just want it to be over?

Thank you. Hopefully others will read and think a bit. Unfortunately it’s not a rare occurrence.

I thought a lot about when I wanted to tell this story. More than whether it should be told--I believe it absolutely should--was the question of how to tell it. And for you to understand why I tell it.

It's not a secret in my life, and everyone I've dated in the last 13 years knows about it; it is just part of my story.

The biggest reason I decided to tell it now is that, for whatever harm it did, it has affected me in a positive way. I don't blame myself for being raped, nor do I dwell on the experience. I chose to deal with it and move forward. And I am fine. I am more than fine.

Sex rises out of many things: Sometimes it's anger, loneliness or grief; often it's lust, love or comfort. But someone always has power over the situation. One of the reasons I enjoy sex so much is that I've learned I can relinquish situational control because my power is within.

Because I do know who I am. And giving up control to someone who respects what they've been given is scary/powerful. It’s really, really good. It’s what I want.

Yes, I've read a little bit of Belle, and I must say I'm intrigued by the idea that someday, some marvelous publisher might offer me a ridiculously large sum of money to turn my blog into a tome which garners few positive reviews.

I also read your post, "Blog Popularity," which raises some interesting issues, though I am inclined to take umbrage at a thinly veiled comparison of Belle de Jour's "pandering" blog and my own. Perhaps I am misreading your comments, but a sex worker not revealing his or her identity seems pretty rudimentary stuff, non?

I can assure you that since I'm doing nothing illegal (in most states, anyway), I would have no problem posting my face, as you do. I am not ashamed of my life, and though it may sound fantastic, I do not write fiction.

I do, however, live in a small town with a college full of Internet-surfing coeds and more Wi-Fi locations than you can shake a stick at. I am a fairly well-known person in my community, as well as a native of my town.

I am also a mother, and while I choose to share certain details of my life online, the rest must remain private for the sake of my children.

I'm curious: how did you come across my blog? Because if you want inspiration for an unbelievable sexblog, go to Jefferson's: www.onelifetaketwo.blogspot.com.